


Office

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But The Other Guy Too, Fluff, Guy Sex, M/M, Okay A Little What You Think, Season Three-Ish, Though Not Who You Think, a bit of angst, body image issues, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg hasn't forgiven Mycroft for his part in Sherlock's "Death" and the British Government will find out why. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg was a distraction, plain and simple. He'd wasted countless hours thinking of the Detective Inspector's needs and wants, how to deliver him little gifts and conveniences beneath the keen radar of Greg's pride. Mycroft Holmes was never apologetic about much, least of all things he had to do to ensure the safety and health of his little brother. Oh, and the country. But then Greg would...  _look_  at him, with those giant brown eyes and, even when Sherlock was being particularly petulant, Greg would make his case in a way that somehow diffused both him  _and_  his sibling. It was insane. Especially his full-body reaction to the betrayal on Greg's face once he found out about Mycroft's involvement with Sherlock's "suicide". It gave him physical pain and he actually allowed him to lash out at him, even punch him. Being ever the logical one, upon his younger brother's return from his actual mission of erasing all traces of Moriarty, the look lessened. Mycroft could actually stand to be in Greg's presence for more than a few minutes without the guilt at his deception pounding in his chest, forcing him to flee.

 

Greg was still unequivocally  _Greg_ , however. A natural caretaker, who still tried to look after Mycroft as he did everyone in their bent little circle. Greg had sent a gift for his birthday, got him something for Christmas(a charming gold tie pin in the shape of an umbrella), and would text him to see if there was anything he wanted from certain places he frequented if he was in the area. Greg cited that he knew Mycroft had little time to actually eat and would hand deliver something to the Diogenes Club, him having told his PA to allow New Scotland Yard's finest access to his office when he was there and some of his schedule when he wasn't. Lestrade's inherent goodness floored him anew every time.

 

Even in the midst of one of Greg's "episodes", when he would do little else but work until he could drink himself to sleep out of guilt at his being fooled into thinking Sherlock was a fraud, and repeat, he would still put his despair aside to help if asked. He'd seen Greg work that way, not going so far as to showing at work smelling like the libations with which he self-medicated, but he would sport dark shadows and stubble which, while aesthetically pleasing in that it was the same lush silver colour as the hair on his head, the cause of was something Mycroft could hardly stand to look at for as long as whatever their exchange needed to be. 

 

He'd made up his mind to ask him outright. He would have done what little Greg allowed regardless, but he needed to know why he clung to this grudge. Everything had sorted itself and everyone else was ecstatic that all was as it should be again. John had even moved back in with Sherlock after an incident where he almost married an undercover assassin trying to get away from her past. Of course it didn't end well, but it ended, and everyone was satisfied if still recovering from the figurative repeated blows. He asked his PA to find Lestrade and send a car. To his(somewhat)surprise, she answered that he'd just arrived, actually. He was admitted immediately, wearing pressed trousers, a rather nice black rain coat under which a crisp powder blue button up practically hugged his lovely(?)chest, as well as that guarded expression he hated to see every time. Mycroft wanted to go to him, put his arm around him, whisper his apologies as Greg had allowed after Sherlock's funeral where he was near inconsolable behind closed doors, playing perfectly stoic to the public, but unable to hold the facade any longer when Mycroft had gone to his flat to check on him. Mycroft had almost lost it then, in the wake of Greg's guilt-laden grief, almost told him everything about what Sherlock was really doing, almost kissed him... He'd held back by the skin of his teeth, however, and his resolve was tested anew every single time he was in his presence.

 

Lestrade had a large paper sack with handles in his right hand and sat the monogrammed dark leather briefcase Mycroft had gifted him the Christmas before in one of the stark guest chairs, putting the sack right next to it. Mycroft was standing and taking Greg's coat before he was aware, then retreated back behind the desk, barely resisting brushing a familiar kiss on his cheek.  

 

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Inspector?" He offered him the free seat by way of a hand gesture, but Greg remained standing as he'd expected.

 

"After all we've been through, least you could do is call me Greg. Or do you automatically delete it every time, too?" Thus chastised, Mycroft shallowly inclined his head. He'd need to speak to Sherlock on what the purpose of that practice was.

 

"Apologies... Greg."

 

"I... have the afternoon off from work and... well, Sherlock he said you had a cold and ordered you some, erm, chicken soup with a lot of garlic and hot peppers," he explained, suddenly uneasy as he began unpacking the apparently full bag. "I told him I wasn't a bloody delivery service but... it was on my way..." He apparently made it so it was on his way. Interesting. "Then I got this nice sandwich on my way here and sampled a few bites. It's, uh, spinach, turkey, onion, and Muenster with a bit of this spicy brown mustard." Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his face and stared at him. Greg would think it was because he was trying to make him feel uneasy and rebel with more confidence. What he was actually doing was being speechless and surprised. It didn't help when Greg brought out the medicine he'd also bought en route and explained that there were both sleep-inducing and energy inducing types, the former only lasting on average four hours per dose as he was aware Mycroft couldn't sleep for long but had to stay awake for endless periods of time. "You don't sound ill, though," he said warily.

 

"I don't have a cold, no," Mycroft retorted after a long moment of his brand of gaping, which looked a lot like unimpressed blinking to the layman.

 

"I'll kill him," Greg declared picking up his briefcase only.

 

"I would still like to share this meal," he said almost before he thought about it. "If... that's alright with you. Shame to let it go to waste." Greg looked as if he was going to say no, pursing shapely lips and sighing.

 

"If you want," he said quietly and sat after parsing it all out. The PA brought in tea and the two men began eating in silence for a few moments. Everything was perfectly delicious, if a bit spicy.

 

"I imagine Sherlock sent you here on false pretenses for a reason."

 

"I imagine you know what the reason is," he answered. "Because I have no idea."

 

"Who knows why he does these things?"

 

"You would more than anyone else," Greg retorted not looking at him. Mycroft found he really wanted him to look at him, though he knew he'd regret it when it happened.

 

"I do have a question to ask you."

 

"Alright."

 

"It seems," he said after swallowing, "that you have fully forgiven Sherlock and Molly Hooper for being involved in Sherlock's... holiday."

 

"It wasn't a holiday." Greg stated sharply, putting his plastic utensil down and glaring. Mycroft was at once satisfied and predictably regretful that Greg's eyes were on him now.

 

"Touche," he conceded. "I just... wish to know why you've been able to forgive them but... not me." Despite the slightly childish nature of his tone, he pressed on, "I didn't actually give Moriarty important information. It was as much a part of the ruse as all the other bits yet..." Instead of answering, his dining companion leapt to his feet and began tidying the spot in which he'd been eating.  Mycroft panicked ever so slightly at his apparent intention to depart. "Greg?" He stood as well, coming around the desk. "If you'll tell me-"

 

"I  _can't_ ," he blurted finally.

 

"What?"

 

"I can't tell you."

 

"You don't know?"

 

"I know. I just can't say. If I tell you it drains the sincerity out of... never mind. It'll never happen anyway. I don't know why I even-" Mycroft grasped his arm gently, halting the slightly shorter man's motions but not the energy vibrating through his well-built frame.

 

"Greg," he said gently. "You do know I am sorry, don't you?"

 

"Sorry for what? What do you have to be sorry for? It was all Sherlock's idea and-"

 

"I'm sorry you were so hurt. I... I almost told you, you know. After the funeral, in your sitting room when you let me... I almost told you everything straight away, so sorry I was that you were hurt so deeply." He released his arm, noting the shapely bicep and Greg thankfully stayed put, but still wouldn't look at him. He was again unsure of whether or not he wanted him to. He may have needed him to, however, to make sure he was heard. "I'd promised. My country, my brother... I took an oath." Greg looked up then, with slightly watery eyes that threatened to shatter the Iceman's heart.

 

"Yes. You understand the concept of the Uniform, too." A Uniform was what he, with a mixture of bitterness and pride, called a somewhat inaccessible person, someone to whom the trappings of their vow to society would always supersede the personal, no matter how much differently they'd want it to be. He thought it noble, but thought himself too hypocritical to be with someone like that, especially if he was someone like that. The Uniform had already destroyed several relationships and a marriage for him. "Look," he said, attempting to wipe his eyes discreetly, as if he was just overtired, which he also actually was, "I just... I didn't think you cared."

 

"You yourself say I cared more than I let on."

 

"About Sherlock." He genuinely thought he didn't...

 

"Greg?" He turned to Mycroft, much closer than he'd anticipated, not backing up, which he didn't either. "If it was my choice, I'd tell you everything. I would give you everything-"  _That_  wasn't supposed to come out, that last bit. Lestrade searched his eyes for a little longer, however, before averting his gaze, still not otherwise retreating. Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well. Apologies. That wasn't supposed to-"

 

"I'd accept," he murmured quietly.

 

"What?" His heart leapt about wildly in his chest. Greg wasn't talking about the apology.

 

"If you really meant it, I'd accept." Greg risked a glance then wiped his eyes once more as he attempted to finish gathering his things.

 

"No, you can't just...  _say_  something like that and-"

 

"Can't I?" He paused, then almost violently, connected his eyes with Mycroft's face. He wished the near-crying expression would cease.

 

"No," he said, more softly. "You can't just say you love me then-"

 

"I didn't say that."

 

"You know well you did. As... did I." He approached him cautiously, only a few steps away yet moving in the space slowly enough to alert him to his every intention not to harm him.

 

"You... didn't," Greg almost whispered, swallowing hard. Ever so gently, without being much aware of it, he repeatedly brushed his right thumb over the Greg's cheek, shaved smooth and still smelling faintly of some alluring aftershave. Greg still watched him, but didn't flinch away from the touch. Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not willing to take a necessary risk and kissing Greg Lestrade was one if he'd ever encountered it.

 

"I love you," he said, his voice just as low. 

 

"I love you," Greg whispered. The first brush was so light, it was mostly just breathing into each other's mouths, a good sign as Greg's lips had parted in anticipation, his eyes closing. That gave Mycroft that extra boost and he pressed them together, reveling in the connection before moving, delighting that he moved with him and was the first to flick an exploratory tongue out. That tiny gesture nearly made him lose control as he slipped his arms about his waist and pulled him tightly against himself, arms reaching up to get as much of that strong back and broad shoulders in his grasp as possible. Greg let him, sliding his arms around Mycroft's neck, combing free the perfectly groomed hairs near the nape of his neck with thick olive-toned fingers to the point that Mycroft had to physically step back. 

 

"Apologies for... I just... need a moment." He retreated behind his desk. Lestrade followed, however, pulling his chair back from the desk and throwing a leg over so that he could sit astride him, facing him. Mycroft's hands automatically went back to his waist, gripping a bit to keep from pulling their pelvises together repeatedly. 

 

"It's alright," Greg murmured, kissing his face. "It's okay." Then Greg was undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, pushing hot, capable hands over warm freckled skin and Mycroft was kissing him fervently again. He slowly let his hands gather his shirt and slide it free from his trousers and slipping under until he reached the skin just above the belted waistband. It was smooth and hot and finely haired, inviting much more than he was doing but...

 

"Greg, I-" His words became a gasp as he began working just the exact spot of Mycroft's throat with soft lips and eager tongue. With a little nip his body betrayed him, and he was groaning and shoving Greg's button up and layered white cotton vest under his armpits to expose a pleasantly broad chest covered in just the right amount of hair that matched that on his head. Mycroft smoothed it, passing fingertips over dusky nipples that pebbled beautifully at the touch then leaning his head forward so he could get his mouth on them. The peaks were deliciously plumped and growing harder, the little sounds he made encouraging. 

 

Then Greg was stroking him and he could hardly think, a panic-inducing thing for a Holmes normally, but this time didn't seem to matter. The crafty man had gotten Mycroft's trousers open and rigid cock out through the slit in his boxer briefs without his knowledge. Then Greg's slightly thicker, darker member was pressed against his, foreskin fully retracted, leaking enough that the extremely expensive hand cream Mycroft kept in his drawer wasn't necessary. He sucked on Greg's tongue as the fluid was spread over their heads, smoothed down their shafts. He completed the circle of Greg's hands with one of his own and, with a groan, helped establish a pressure and rhythm amenable to both parties. Greg was so very wet and responsive, producing more of the sticky, clear fluid than Mycroft thought possible, and breathing heavily in a manner that would make this end way too quickly. As it was, he was holding on to himself by a thread... a thread which snapped when Greg hoarsely begged him to come, those captivating eyes closed, that length of neck exposed as he had thrown back his head. The way Greg said his name...

 

He started to do as he was bid, unable to do more than grunt his lover's name and a string of other words he wasn't even sure were coherent. He felt like an animal, gnawing at Greg's bared throat as he pounded into the circle of their hands. With his free hand, Greg squeezed him ever so tightly, raking at his back, encouraging him with words and body, the way his ankles locked around the back of his chair, how Greg seemed surprised at the sounds coming from his own mouth. The kisses were sloppy, almost angry and he was mildly afraid his fingers would leave bruises where he held on to Greg's hip for dear life. His ministrations to Lestrade's neck definitely would and the animal was proud. Greg was his by choice at this moment and the thought made him spill himself between them with a guttural grunt, followed by Greg a few moments later. 

 

They kissed softly now, rubbing everything he'd gripped so hard and otherwise marked as they rested their foreheads together, sitting back into his chair yet unable to bear disconnecting their hands as yet. He began apologising before he even saw Greg's face, anticipating confusion or, worse, regret.

 

"I... I don't know what came over me," he was saying, the hairs on Greg's chest slick with perspiration against his temple when he pressed a kiss there then leaned his head down there to hide himself in the fantasy that this was the exact right thing to do for a few moments longer. "I shouldn't have-"

 

"I told you it's alright."

 

"I've never been that out of control... I didn't wish to hurt you." Greg had cleaned his hand with tissues from a dispenser on the desk so he could put them on either side of Mycroft's worried face, lovingly re-positioning it so that he could look into his sparkling eyes. Once again he was lost.

 

"I'm okay," he said softly. He knew he was sore from the awkward positioning as much as he knew he wouldn't ever say anything about it. 

 

"I love you," he said without thinking. Greg brought out the worst of sentiment in him. It was like his heart spoke before his mind could work anything out. He only hoped it wouldn't be the case with certain situations. He could probably keep his mouth shut on matters of national security. Maybe.

 

"I love you," he murmured in return, still seeming unused to the words but, pressing their lips together once more and dismounting with a wince Mycroft felt himself. His guilt couldn't even be penetrated by the reassuring smile he was given. He extracted more tissues, only stopping when Mycroft pulled wet wipes and damp stain removing squares from his desk drawer. Greg took them, balling them up in his hands and pushing Mycroft's hands away when he reached for them. He was... warming them. Greg then proceeded to clean him first and put him away in a gesture so loving, he almost sighed under the weight of his full heart. The impending awkwardness was even dispelled with a rather self-satisfied, toothy grin as he sorted his own clothes out.

 

"This wasn't just-"

 

"I know," Greg assured him, smiling a bit shyly despite what they'd just done. It drove him mad with desire despite having just slaked his immediate hunger for him.

 

"May I-"

 

"Yes."

 

"You... didn't even know what I was going to ask."

 

"Alright," Greg smirked, folding his arms with a cheeky little smirk. "Ask." He kissed him again first, reveling in how he just accepted them now, as if they'd been doing this all along. Everything seemed so natural with him. It was frightening. He smiled back and opened his mouth when his phone went off. He groaned at it after excusing himself and the information on it made him frown further. "What is it?"

 

"Unfortunately, my bumbling attempt at doing this backward and asking you to dinner after...  _that_  must be postponed. It seems I'm needed out of the country." He looked back at his phone to avoid his heartbreak showing when his face fell.

 

"Are you able to say how long?" It hurt more that he knew how this worked.

 

"I'm afraid I don't know."

 

"Well... Off you pop to save the world, then." Lestrade's smile was bright, proud... forced. Mycroft held his precious head in his hands and kissed him several times before speaking again.

 

"I don't want you to think I want anything more than to stay with you."

 

"I know," he said, putting his right hand over Mycroft's left and bunching the fabric at his waist with the other. "Your country calls." Greg then wiped off his new mate's jacket, kissed him thoroughly, and departed. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Despite his agitation at being parted from him, Mycroft was, in general, much more calm, now that it was done. He was better able to focus, more easily make decisions. Lestrade still crept unwittingly into his mind, but now he was able to put the thoughts aside for a more appropriate time. He hadn't masturbated this much since he was fifteen. He decided that he could continue to do so for the rest of his days if he got to just be with him, regardless of how attracted they were to each other, no matter if they went at it like feral animals in his office. Also he had to stop thinking about that when he wasn't alone in his lodgings because the effect was almost embarrassingly immediate. 

 

He had mundane work in France that he could stretch to a week. Greg did mention it was a second home to him, as he'd spent many Summers there growing up in and around Paris. He would hire someone to keep him company, carry his shopping, that sort of thing whilst he was in meetings then show him the bits Greg playfully called James Bond's Paris. Greg was nothing if not frugal, but Mycroft wished to provide him with everything he could now that they were officially together and he was allowed to be more up front about it. 

 

Small doubts assailed every thought. Would Greg think he was showing off? Too pretentious? He would tell him outright when he was wrong most of the time, but did that change now that their status had? He knew the technical aspects of a romantic partnership but the opportunity for practice was lacking. This was why he disliked caring. So complicated. He knew exactly what Greg liked, disliked, how his eyes brightened around children and animals and... come to think of it, him. He could see it now, without his little brother making a mockery of his indecision about whether or not Greg fancied him. Back. Now there was no doubt. With his rather traumatic past, romantically speaking, he was so very surprised at a kiss from Greg, let alone how far it went. He didn't seem to regret it exactly, just seemed as surprised at himself as Mycroft was with himself at his ability to initiate and go through with a passionate tryst with each other specifically.

 

All was confirmed(at least until the next slight panic attack over it)when he returned to his home and turned the phone he wasn't allowed to bring that time back on. Sherlock had most of his secret numbers so all of the texts and voice messages weren't from him. There were a few left on purpose for various cover stories from various people that knew where he was if not what he was doing, but the majority came from Greg. Tens of them, actually, as if they were a genuine couple, as if it wasn't all some glorious dream. As much as he wanted to just call, as he knew he was probably awake even at two am, or would wake up for him, he had to get all the information before initial post mission contact.

 

He felt like a teen-ager but he just wanted to hear his voice.

 

He couldn't believe that happened.

 

He didn't regret that it happened. Just surprised. 

 

He's just going to treat his inboxes as if he was just having a regular conversation with his... boyfriend? Partner? Lover? What were they now?

 

Together. They were together, is what they were.

 

But partner was probably more mature sounding.

 

Though it would be cute to call him his boyfriend sometimes, so he would do that, too, even if it was just to take the piss.

 

The messages and texts went on like that, as if he was watching a film or tv show with him through a private twitter account his daughter helped him set up that posed as a parody account. It all filled Mycroft with a glee that permeated everything. There were... erm... pictures. Nothing too untoward, no matter how hard he wished it, but scantily clad or implied nudity such as when he'd just gotten out of the shower was good enough for a near-instant erection he used as an opportunity to, once again, practice willing away. He also decided to practice being able to stay away from Greg until an opportune moment. As it was, after he listened and saw all of the messages, even searching his social media pages where there were video clips of Greg playfully singing longing songs and a particular photo shoot(a series of what he was told were 'selfies') of Lestrade in a white shirt and tie with an umbrella and nothing else, he was halfway out the door again. So he restricted himself to seeing him in Paris, where he would definitely agree to meet him. Probably.

 

The minutes between the arrangements made and actually getting there were agony. The meetings he had that began immediately upon getting off of the plane required the minimum of his attention as he berated himself for being so nervous about whether or not his Silver Fox, as he'd begun calling Greg in his mind, would accept his voice mail invitation without giving away that he'd actually come home first. He was called away on another brief "emergency"(read: incompetence)having to turn that phone off once more but allowed to bring it with him this time as he transitioned immediately to France's capital, before he could reply. He couldn't turn it back on until he was back to his two-bedroom suite at the Park Hyatt and by then, he would already have his answer.

 

The king of outward composure, he stiffened his upper lip as he let himself into the rooms, heart pounding. The main sitting area was empty, the outside world as dark as his mood was becoming looking out into it through large windows and he physically felt his heart begin to break. Until he saw them. The tiny tell-tale signs that someone else besides staff of both his and the hotel had been there. He heard the commode in one of the two en-suites and was surprised by the vehemence of his heart's resurgence via hope. A beloved argent head poked out of the master bedroom and the smile on that face gave him butterflies. He really needed to sort himself out, but it wouldn't be immediately happening as his senses were suddenly full of him and he was kissing his face all over, saying something about how he missed him. Greg was even wearing one of the shirts he'd had sent ahead and a pair of well-fitted heather grey tartan boxers. He settled finally on Mycroft's lips and he continued to just hold on as Greg took the initiative once more, his sweet tongue(Cabernet 2001)probing his mouth, dancing with his, his body warm as he was pressed backward until they hit an obstruction. 

 

Only when Greg broke the kiss, having again miraculously gotten Mycroft's shirt and waistcoat undone during the frenzy, did he realize that the needy, whimpering noises weren't just coming from himself, as a slow path was made across and down his chest with a soft mouth and skillful tongue. And only when Greg had his trousers open did he stop him. When he looked up at him from his knees, practically begging for permission, he almost gave it on principal. How it was possible to look that innocent and wanton simultaneously was beyond him.

 

But he had to do this properly. It was the whole reason he'd procured the extra bedroom. Mycroft would make sure he knew that sex wasn't all this was. He would make sure he knew he was under no obligation to do anything he didn't wish to do sexually. He would make sure he knew tenderness and freedom. He would make love to Greg Lestrade, even if they weren't having sex. 

 

His lizard brain of course took over when Greg murmured, "Please. I want to." All Mycroft could do was nod, not trusting his voice. As it was, when he pulled him, raging through the slit of his boxer briefs and wrapped his luxurious lips around the head, swirling his tongue around it for a taste, the groan that escaped him was more high-pitched than he would have liked. Greg made quick work of him, him barely able to stop himself from grabbing the back of that silvered head, slightly tousled from activity, and ramming himself repeatedly down his throat. What the hell was Greg doing to him?! He was convinced he had an additional tiny orgasm as the results of the first was greedily swallowed. His back slid down the wall when he popped off and he climbed into his lap as he had that first time, careful of his sensitive flagging erection. Greg then proceeded to use kissing his neck as a way to politely get as much of his flavour off of his tongue as possible before he kissed him again. He could still taste himself and it shouldn't have been nearly as arousing as it was, but everything about him was stimulating to everything about Mycroft. He held him tightly, breathing still regulating as they lay their heads sweetly against each other.

 

"I missed you, too," Mycroft hummed. "Very much. But you didn't have to-" Greg kissed him again until he stopped whatever it was he was saying. "I thought Marcus would be keeping you company still," he said. "It was a lovely day for seeing the sights, perhaps a bit of shopping."

 

"I didn't go." He gave him a questioning look. "I didn't want to go anywhere without you."

 

"You're ridiculous."

 

"You're ridiculous. Wasting money on hiring someone to take me around when I don't want to go around with anyone but you. Also of course I bloody brought clothes. I'm not just going to buy everything here."

 

"I... had meetings. I will again tomorrow. All day. I thought you'd be lonely or bored."

 

"I told you this is my old stomping grounds," Greg smirked, dismounting and sitting next to Mycroft, right side pressed to his left. "I visited a couple of old mates."

 

"Well, I would also like you to get yourself whatever else you may need or want here." He tapped his(bare!)thigh thoughtfully, letting his eyes roam the well-muscled entity rather unabashedly, still high on endorphins. 

 

"I don't need haute couture, Mycroft." That tiny bit of French pronounced correctly did little to calm Mycroft's desires.

 

"Shop wherever you'd like, my love." He hadn't even taken off his jacket or tie. He stood, shedding the former, draping it neatly over the back of the sofa, and pulled the latter the rest of the way undone as he went to find the wine in the Master Bedroom. The windows and balcony in there overlooked the Opera House. It was breathtaking, especially at night. What's more, Greg followed him. "There's a delightful Moroccan market nearby with impeccable handmade shirts where I'm sure you'll find something. I should love to see you in something grey, or a sapphire in colour. And one in your beloved Arsenal crimson."

 

"Yeah I know that family. The mother's ninety if she's a day. I feel badly paying so little for the quality. But they always give me a few extras when I buy a couple of shirts from them."

 

"Then pay more."

 

"This is not about your money, Myc. It never was." 

 

Mycroft kissed his forehead. "I suppose you don't want to know how much this wine is worth, then," he smirked at the stunned expression returned, taking a sip of it. It was like smoked fruit, as if the grapes and pears were grilled over charcoal with cloves. Rather sweet and refreshing. He then got another good look at him. "Don't worry about the size increase," he assured Greg. "You're no longer a boy and I find your form is quite pleasing." Greg gave a disbelieving half smirk at that. 

 

"I should find a place that sells those thin linen robes." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him, both shooting up to his receding hairline when Greg continued with, "Maybe I should find me one of them genii costumes. I've always liked the look of those. With the gold threading, those flowing trousers... One of those great big curved swords, yeah?" Yes, he'd just had yet another spectacular orgasm, but there was definite interest in seeing Greg bare-chested and sun-kissed, the glint of a scimitar at his side.

 

"You'd get no complaints from me," he winked.

 

"I'm sure I wouldn't." Greg smiled fully now, insinuating himself back into his embrace with a light kiss to his lips, that turned a bit more passionate than he figured was originally planned.

 

"Promise me you'll go tomorrow," he pleaded. "I don't wish for you to be cooped up in here waiting for me all day. Marcus is already paid through tomorrow." Greg laughed delightfully and nodded. "Good. I'll have him come in as I'm leaving in the morning." Greg hummed noncommittally and began laying kisses on his neck.

 

"Will we have time for breakfast together?"

 

"If... If you're sleeping well, I-I wouldn't want to wake you." His refractory period was over so much sooner than he'd imagined.

 

"Please?" His eyes were wide a dark and he almost drowned. He downed the rest of his glass of wine and took back a little of the control that was slipping through his fingers at his lover's ministrations. He backed him toward the large, luxurious looking bed and pushed him onto it. Greg was a bit surprised by the ease with which he did so. He hoped with all of his heart that he'd be able to do something about Greg's rather wary state of mind. It was tragic. The man was perfect in every way. Even his scars, born of playground antics, pub brawls, and dealing with his little brother, seemed to enhance, rather than mar. He was a wise warrior and beautiful beyond mere physicality. Now that the edge was off, he didn't feel so rushed, attempting to lavish worship on every part of him. Especially since he hadn't got off yet.

 

He began on that great expanse of back at the nape of his neck, finding the spots that garnered the strongest reactions with ease and reveling in them, the soft noises he made. He used his mouth and his hands all the way down, trying not to tickle. But when it was time for him to turn over, he requested the light be turned out first. Of course he would.

 

"I want to see you," he protested. "You didn't have this issue when we..."

 

"I know, but... that was rushed and we still mostly had our clothes... Sorry. I don't mean to ruin things." What exactly was going on here? Who did this to his Greg? He'd do an investigation as soon as they got back. Right now, was for proving the man wrong about how he thought of himself for whatever reason.

 

"You're beautiful," he said solemnly. "Every bit of you is so beautiful to me, and not just sexually." Greg put his face in the pillow, forehead leaning on his folded forearms.

 

"Mycroft..."

 

"If you don't believe me, turn around and look at me."

 

"How do I know?" he asked in a voice much too small to belong to Greg Lestrade. "You're something of a master of disguise." Mycroft couldn't deny that he had put on a mask around him many times, but only to hide this all-consuming lust for everything about him. Now he could no better hide anything from him than he could survive an Antarctic winter with nothing but a tent and a shock blanket. 

 

"I will show you." He saw Greg stiffen even more but he rolled onto his back. It was everything he'd imagined, deduced, saw in his office, and so much more. Delectably dusky nipples, not yet fully erect lay under silken silver hair. His stomach was at once soft and firm, iliac crests still prominent. He kept his pubic hair trimmed a bit as he'd noticed before but left the rest. His was an athlete's body, the only sign of middle age would have been completely eliminated with a few sit ups if it really mattered. He'd started acquiring that magnificent hair colour rather early, in his late twenties, so that wasn't it. His smile was adolescent and his heart was pure. All and all he was just  _young_. Greg's face was wooden but for shining eyes which hurt Mycroft's soul.

 

He began with his forehead, sweeping side to side as he descended, getting his ears, neck, pectorals, everything into the path of his ministrations. He avoided his cock for the moment, slowly filling despite his misgivings about his body. What he was doing was working at least a bit.  He got to Greg's feet, clean, trimmed, the feet of a runner, and back up, judging by his sounds that he was enjoying it. Greg reached up around him and pulled him down for a meaningful kiss and he found himself lost in him again, but not quite as urgently. He'd already uncapped the small bottle of warmed lubricant he'd acquired during his journey without Greg's knowledge and kissed him as he dumped some into his palm one-handed, running his open mouth down Greg's freshly shaved jaw, slightly salty neck, supple chest. Mycroft spread it over his fingers, and got Greg used to them being down there, in such an intimate place before pressing in, slowly as he took him into his mouth for distraction. 

 

Mycroft worked in a leisurely fashion, taking his time, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and stroking it with one, then two fingers, until Greg relaxed enough to allow a third, enough to forget at least a little bit about whatever false sense of inferiority plagued him. Then, Mycroft was sinking into him, giving him time to adjust, loving how he began meeting his thrusts, timing his undulations with his. He called Greg what he was, his love, his own darling, his clever, beautiful one. Mycroft tried to pour everything about how perfect Greg was, how very much he was loved into his every moment,  with every part of him, failing, but continuing in the attempt. With a surprised yet passionate cry of his name, Greg spasmed around him, spurted liquid heat between them, triggering his orgasm before he was ready for it.

 

It took him a moment of recovery before he realized Greg's tears. Mycroft froze, going over every detail and not finding any sign he was forcing himself on him. Greg wasn't pulling out of his embrace. In fact, he held on all the more tightly. He peppered his face with soothing kisses and the whispered question of what the problem was.

 

"I never..." he choked out, then tried again. "I haven't... without- I'm sorry. I just..." Greg tucked his face into Mycroft's neck and heaved a great, shaky sigh. Ah. He'd never orgasmed hands free. Mycroft was in awe, all over again at the depth of his feeling for him.

 

"Oh, my sweet Greg," he cooed. "Don't think for one second that I don't know all you've done and are still doing to be able to give me the gift of your body and heart." Greg kissed back desperately through his lamentations. Between another glass of wine and another orgasm for Greg, he barely stayed awake long enough to be cleaned up before falling into a deep sleep in Mycroft's arms. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
